


caution: you're extremely hot

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 06:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: “I think it’s kind of cute that you’re in love with the Starbucks barista,” Elisa said thoughtfully, snapping her gum in the exact way Patrick hated. “You should lure him over to the dark side. We have cookies.”“Okay one,” Patrick said. “I’m never allowing you to repeat phrases you found on t-shirts at Hot Topic in our coffeeshop ever again. Two, I am not in love with the Starbucks loser, and if you insinuate that again, I’m removing you as co-owner.”





	caution: you're extremely hot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunflashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflashes/gifts).



> literally no one asked for this but i wrote it anyway. please accept my contribution to trick or pete this year, which i never actually formally joined but oh well. 
> 
> i have the flu so this is proofread through the lens of dayquil and tinnitus. 
> 
> i love being the first person to write for a ship, by the way. i feel like a pioneer.

Starbucks was an affront to basic decency. Patrick knew this the same way he knew two plus two equaled four. All Starbucks consisted of was overpriced, overrated coffee with no originality or passion involved, and Patrick absolutely hated that he couldn’t stop finding excuses to go there. He needed to scope out the competition, obviously. He needed to make sure the corporate shitlords hadn’t ripped anything off from his cafe.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the barista that had tattoos up both arms and badly straightened hair and a smile that knocked the breath out of Patrick every time he saw it.

It was just because he wanted to protect Soul Punk. That was all.

“I think it’s kind of cute that you’re in love with the Starbucks barista,” Elisa said thoughtfully, snapping her gum in the exact way Patrick hated. “You should lure him over to the dark side. We have cookies.”

“Okay one,” Patrick said. “I’m never allowing you to repeat phrases you found on t-shirts at Hot Topic in our coffeeshop ever again. Two, I am not in love with the Starbucks loser, and if you insinuate that again, I’m removing you as co-owner.”

“No, you won’t,” Elisa said, grinning. “You’d be lost without me.”

“I hate you,” Patrick muttered. 

“Love you, too,” Elisa said.

The problem was, Elisa wasn’t wrong. Well, Patrick was definitely _not_ in love with the Starbucks barista, even though he was fit with tattoos that made Patrick drool a little and hair just the perfect length for pulling. No, Patrick just had a vested interest in saving such an interesting person from a life of ceaseless corporate bullshit. That was all. That was _it._

“You gonna order something?” the barista asked, and Patrick realized abruptly that he’d totally zoned out staring at the circle of thorns he could just see poking out of the barista’s t-shirt. He was wearing a nametag today--his name was _Pete,_ which. Great. Patrick should have never named this barista, he didn’t want to get attached. 

“How do you stand Starbucks?” he asked before he could shut his mouth up. Patrick had all the grace and social etiquette of a rusty spoon. There was a reason he kept Elisa around besides the fact that she was his best friend. 

Pete raised an eyebrow. 

“They’re paying for school,” he said slowly. “And I’m brokeish.”

“The coffee is horrible,” Patrick said. 

“So you’re here because….”

Patrick didn’t answer. Pete looked like he was fighting a grin. 

“Have you ever even _tried_ a pumpkin spice?” he asked, reaching for a cup. 

“Those are the worst,” Patrick said automatically. 

“So, no,” Pete said, writing _PSL_ on the side of the cup and glancing back up at him. “Name?”

“What?” Patrick asked, thrown for a loop.

“Name,” Pete repeated, shaking the cup a little for emphasis. “Generally your parents give you one when you come screaming out of a vagina, unless you’re secretly an alien.”

“Patrick,” Patrick said, and Pete grinned, writing it down. 

“Number?” he asked, smirking, and Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Worth a shot. I would love for you to show me your version of _real coffee.”_

“Soul Punk,” Patrick said, gesturing behind him. “Coffeeshop on the corner of Roosevelt, just outside the Loop?”

“Oh?” Pete asked, raising an eyebrow and passing off the cup to another barista, who took one look at Pete and Patrick and rolled her eyes. “Is that real coffee?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, a little dumbly. 

“And you know this how?” Pete asked. Patrick grimaced. 

“I own it,” he said flatly.

“Conflict of interest,” Pete said immediately, and Patrick rolled his eyes. Pete’s eyes flitted behind Patrick as someone cleared their throat, and Patrick quickly handed Pete his debit card.

“You already paid,” Pete lied, having the unmitigated gall to wink along with it. “I’m gonna surprise you at your little hipster coffeeshop, Patrick. I hope it doesn’t disappoint.”

Patrick tried and failed to will the blush out of his cheeks. 

\----

The bell on Soul Punk’s door chimed and Patrick looked up only for his mouth to go very abruptly dry. He dropped the tea he’d been restocking and turned to make a beeline for the backroom, only to be grabbed by the _worst_ best friend Patrick had _ever._

“Stop,” he hissed. “I need to escape.”

“It’s Pete,” Elisa all but taunted. “Don’t you want to say hello?”

“No,” Patrick said, but it was too late.

“So far, your aprons are cuter,” Pete said with a smirk that made Patrick’s entire face go hot. “So are your baristas.”

“Thank you,” Elisa said with a shit eating grin, and to Patrick’s horror, Pete seemed to _like_ her shitty jokes. No, this was _not happening._

“Hi,” Patrick said flatly, but he knew the flush on his face gave up the game. “You here for real coffee?”

“Real coffee,” Pete acquiesced. “Or maybe just the scenery.”

“Elisa has a girlfriend,” Patrick said before he could help himself, and Elisa jabbed a finger between his ribs. Patrick only winced a little. 

“Congratulations,” Pete said to her. “Hey, this really cute guy came into Starbucks the other day and said he owned this place, do you know him?”

“I don’t know,” Elisa said, smirking. “I know the other owner, but ‘really cute’ is a very generous description.”

“I hate you,” Patrick said, mostly to Elisa but also to Pete. He was not _cute._ He was punk rock as hell. 

If the hipster glasses and fedora and cardigans weren’t considered, at least. 

“If you own the place, why are you behind the counter?” Pete asked, leaning against said counter like he owned the place. “Don’t you have minions?”

“I have three employees,” Patrick said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s their day off. Get your ass off my counter, please. I never know when I’m having a health inspection.”

Elisa had snuck away as if Patrick absolutely hadn’t noticed her, in a very obvious and non sneaky manner. Patrick made a mental note to fire her, for posterity, even though he’d have to re-hire her immediately. He folded his arms uncomfortably, knowing his cheeks were still pink if not red and that he was a little--okay, a lot--sweaty from working behind the steamers all morning. He just sweat a lot, okay?

Pete grinned at him, raking a hand through his thick curly hair, evidently not bothering to straighten it today. He wore jeans that were more rips than pants, with a shirt that said _suck my richard._ Patrick absolutely hated himself for being even sort of charmed by this clearly corporate influenced asshole. 

“So,” Pete said.

“So,” Patrick repeated flatly. Pete lips quirked in another smirk. Ugh. 

“You mentioned real coffee,” Pete said, gesturing behind Patrick. “So make me some magic, coffee boy.”

“I can and will ban you from the shop,” Patrick said, even as he reached for a mug on the shelf to his right. He chose one of his ‘whimsical’ mugs, the ones they used for customers with a sense of humor. This particular mug was covered in artistic flowers, with _eat a bag of dicks_ written in flowing script in the middle.

Pete had the audacity to laugh in delight, and Patrick fought his own grin. God, this guy was ten shades of asshat, why was he _exactly_ Patrick’s type? He was essentially a smaller version of Travie, a carbon copy with different tattoos, and he preemptively hated Elisa for the fact that she would inevitably make fun of Patrick for it. 

“What are you making me?” Pete asked. “Does it have arsenic in it?”

“Good idea,” Patrick said, and Pete winked. Patrick rolled his eyes.

“I don’t think arsenic is as fatal as your eyes,” Pete said, and Patrick flushed again.

“Do you want to try my glare on for size?” he asked. Pete winked again. “I heard it could kill a man. My resting bitch face has a body count.”

“Baby, don’t make me swoon,” Pete said, and Patrick’s mouth went dry. God. What the hell happened to his good taste? He wanted to say his mother would be horrified if he brought Pete home, but unfortunately, Pete seemed like the exact type to be able to charm every boy’s mom. And girl’s. And strangers in the street.

That was it, Patrick was making a doctor’s appointment to check for a brain tumor or something.

“Here,” Patrick said, finishing the latte and sliding it across the counter. “I hope your taste buds aren’t completely ruined by that mess Starbucks calls coffee.”

“Is this a penis?” Pete said in interest, looking down at Patrick’s inadvertent foam design. He didn’t do that stuff, wasn’t any good at it. Elisa was amazing and Nicole was catching up. Joe couldn’t care less and Andy usually scowled every time he had to handle real milk, so Patrick mostly stuck him on tea and bakery.

“No,” Patrick said belatedly. “It’s my middle finger.”

“You are the most charming barista I have ever met,” Pete said thoughtfully, sipping the latte. 

“I am not a barista,” Patrick said. “I am a small business owner.”

“Who works the counter so his employees can have the day off,” Pete added. “Interesting.”

“Will you finish the coffee so I can kick you out?” Patrick asked, exasperated. “You’re exhausting.”

“Thank you for giving me a reason to take as much time as possible,” Pete said. “And thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Patrick opened his mouth but found himself speechless. He shut his mouth quickly and tried his best to glare, but Pete was completely unaffected. Patrick swallowed. 

“How long have you worked at Starbucks?” he asked, and Pete tilted his head like he was sizing Patrick up. 

“Nine endless years,” Pete said finally, running his finger around the rim of the mug. “Got the job because they pay for school. I ended up dropping out, which pissed my dad off. Then I got caught with a boy and shown the door. Now here I am.”

Pete finished with a gesture at himself and a wry grin. Patrick bit his lip.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and Pete blinked in what looked like surprise. Probably because that was the first thing Patrick said that wasn’t wrapped in a caustic comment out of sheer self-defense. 

“Thanks,” Pete said quietly, before abruptly changing the subject. “How long have you had Soul Punk?”

“Six beautiful months,” Patrick said. “I, too, dropped out of college. Elisa did not and dragged me with her to create our coffeeshop. She’s the brains, I’m the scenery. Apparently.”

“It’s good scenery,” Pete said, but his voice was more honest than teasing. “Best I’ve seen.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said. Pete grinned at him. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not convinced. I might have to come back another time to make sure this coffee is better than Starbucks.”

“Come back more than once,” Patrick offered. “I’ll prove it.”

Pete raised and eyebrow and Patrick grinned before he could help it, watching Pete take another sip of his latte.

Elisa was never, ever gonna let him hear the end of this.

\-----

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

Patrick jerked in surprise and dropped the carton of eggs he’d been inspecting. He stared forlornly at the dirty linoleum floor, now home to a dozen cracked eggs, before turning to glare at whoever had spoken.

That being Pete. Patrick pretended he wasn’t suddenly breathless. He doubted he passed, but Pete very charitably pretended he didn’t notice.

“Cleanup on aisle six,” he said, and Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“Are you stalking me?” he asked. “Because this store is too hipster for Starbucks corporate overlords.”

Pete shrugged. 

“I needed bread,” he said. “And regular stores were too far away. But if I had known about their clientele, I might have started shopping exclusively here sooner.”

“You,” Patrick said, fighting a grin and a blush. “Are the worst.”

“Guilty as charged,” Pete said. “It’s your turn.”

“My turn what?” Patrick asked, reaching to grab a second carton of eggs. He still needed them, after all. 

“If I’m tasting your coffee, you have to taste mine,” Pete said. “Literally, not euphemistically.”

“I can’t think of a single time coffee has been a euphemism for anything sexual,” Patrick said. 

“I can,” Pete said, practically leering at Patrick.

“I already tasted your gross ass coffee,” Patrick said, all but turning up his nose at Pete. Pete didn’t need to know that Patrick liked the pumpkin spice so much he and Elisa were plotting releasing their own version, which obviously would be far superior.

“You wound me,” Pete said. “You have to try more. There are 255 drinks on our menu.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick said immediately. “How in the hell do you remember any of them?”

“To be honest, I only remember the popular ones,” Pete shrugged. “I have to cheat on the rest.”

“How do you cheat at coffee?” Patrick asked. 

“Industry secret,” Pete said loftily. “Come by tomorrow. You could wear a disguise, no one would know you’re fraternizing with the enemy.”

“Are you the enemy, or is Starbucks?” Patrick asked. 

“I hope it’s Starbucks,” Pete said, winking. Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Come on. What does your coffeeshop have that Starbucks does not?”

“Uh, originality?” Patrick said. “Edible food? Actual coffee? Culture?”

“And you?” Pete added with a shit eating grin. “Wait, originality?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, pointedly ignoring the obvious flirting attempt. One of many, but whatever. “We have interesting and unique things on our menu. Does Starbucks?”

“No,” Pete conceded. “Well they do have me. If you accepted corporate heathens as originality.”

“I don’t accept all corporate heathens,” Patrick said. “But you’re okay, I guess.”

He ended it with a grin that made Pete blush this time. Pete’s blush wasn’t a bad look, actually, kind of endearing. God damn it. Patrick was not supposed to get attached!

“Be careful,” Pete said. “If someone overheard that, they might think you like me or something.”

“Oh no,” Patrick said dryly. “We can’t have _that.”_

Pete was grinning, looking at Patrick like he didn’t quite know what to do next. Patrick could relate. Everything about Pete was fucking with Patrick’s whole existence. Not that it meant anything. Patrick didn’t have time to date, he had a business to run, and besides, he was sick of dating cute guys with tattoos and gorgeous smiles only to be dumped for someone else. Not after the last two. No. Patrick’s heart was under lock and goddamn key, no matter how much Pete tried breaking in. 

“So you’ll come by?” Pete asked hopefully. “There has to be something on the menu that doesn’t offend your soul.”

“There won’t be,” Patrick said. “But I suppose I can make some time.”

Pete grinned and Patrick’s breath actually caught in his throat, grip tightening on the basket. Pete reached out and tucked a piece of Patrick’s hair back behind his ear and Patrick had to actively work not to blush cherry red. Fuck Pete. God, just _fuck_ Pete, in the metaphorical way, shut up, body.

“I’ll see you then,” Pete said, and Patrick bitterly hated himself.

\----

“Just fucking go,” Elisa said, exasperated. “Watching you freak out is giving me an aneurysm. Go. To. Starbucks.”

“You’re fired,” Patrick said, and Elisa shoved him. “You sure?”

“You look _fine,”_ Elisa said, but it was nicer. She reached out and pushed his hat further back on his head. “C’mon. This isn’t another Travie.”

“It wasn’t Travie’s fault,” Patrick said, before he could help himself. Elisa rolled her eyes. 

“Right,” she said. “And it wasn’t Bob’s fault, either. Or Shane’s.”

“No, Shane’s a piece of shit,” Patrick said immediately. “I swear to god I’ll break his nose if he comes back around you.”

“Patrick,” Elisa said fondly. “I know you’re protecting your heart. I know how much it hurt to be betrayed twice like that. But you have to take a chance. I did, remember? Even after Shane? And now I have Meredith?”

Patrick sighed. 

“Yeah,” he said. “But Pete’s not it.”

“You are so wrong,” Elisa sighed. “But it’s okay. I’ll give you time to figure it out. Now go.”

Patrick had never been able to ignore Elisa, which was the main reason he was in line at fucking Starbucks. He tried to resist going on tip-toe to see who was behind the counter because he wasn’t _desperate,_ but the line was just long enough that he couldn’t see over the heads of the people in front of him, all of whom appeared to be of average height, unlike him. 

He was nervous, which was ridiculous. It was just Pete, just a guy that constantly flirted, Patrick could handle that. Sure, Patrick wasn’t usually the one that faced this kind of attention--that honor belonged to basically everyone else in the shop, with Andy coming in the lead. Elisa said Patrick would be hit on more if he defrosted a little bit, but Patrick didn’t care.

At least, until Pete. 

That had to prove Patrick’s brain tumor theory correct. Patrick was sure of it.

He’d come close enough to the counter to see that Pete was nowhere in sight. He tried not to let his heart sink. Sure, Pete was the whole reason Patrick was here, but maybe with Pete absent, Patrick could hate Starbucks with a passion in peace. 

“Hi,” said the barista behind the counter, flipping a pen in his hand and sounding either bored or exhausted or both. “What can I get you?”

“Um,” Patrick said. He hadn’t really thought about it, expecting Pete to decide for him, but this kid didn’t seem like he cared about that. “Pumpkin spice?”

“Is that a question?” the kid asked, reaching for a cup. “What size?”

“No,” Patrick said. “And medium.”

“It’s called a _grande,”_ the barista said witheringly. “Name?”

“Patrick,” Patrick replied. The barista was conspicuously missing a name tag, because of course he was. Nobody could complain if the barista was nameless. 

“$4.75,” the barista said, sliding the cup across the counter to the girl making the drinks. “Meagan, another.”

“Thanks,” the girl said sourly, picking up Patrick’s cup. She glanced at the name, then looked up at Patrick and immediately smirked. “Oh, _hi.”_

Patrick narrowed his eyes.

“Hi,” he said shortly. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” Meagan said, looking at Patrick like he was some fascinating specimen of human she’d never seen in nature before. “Are you or are you not the Patrick that owns some shitty hipster coffeeshop by the Loop?”

The nameless barista looked back at Patrick so quickly it looked like he got whiplash. Someone cleared their throat from behind Patrick but the nameless barista had the audacity to hold up a hand to them.

“Wait,” he said shortly. “We are witnessing a miracle. Are you that Patrick?”

“Why?” Patrick asked, looking from Meagan to the nameless barista, both of whom looked like Christmas, Easter, and their birthdays had all come early. 

“So, that’s a yes,” the nameless barista said. “God, I wish Spencer was here. You are pretty cute, I didn’t expect that.”

“Thank you?” Patrick said slowly. “Or should I be offended?”

“Pete usually has such shitty taste,” Meagan said dismissively. “We never believe him when he says someone is cute. You’re an anomaly. Tell me, are you really as bitchy as he says?”

“Depends on how bitchy he says I am,” Patrick said, and the guy behind Patrick cleared his throat again. The nameless barista pointed at him with a dirty look.

“Go find another Starbucks, I’m closing this one,” he said, and Meagan laughed. “This requires my full attention. Patrick. Hipster coffeeshop owner. What are your intentions with Pete?”

“Intentions?” Meagan said, still laughing. “What is this, a Jane Austin novel?”

“I have to protect my son,” the nameless barista said darkly.

“Pete is older than you,” Meagan pointed out. 

“Whatever,” nameless barista said dismissively. “Answer my question, Hipster Coffeeshop Man.”

“You know my name is Patrick,” Patrick pointed out shortly.

“Wow,” Meagan said, eyes bright. “He _is_ a bitch.”

“Can I have my coffee, please?” Patrick asked out of sheer self-defense. “You do know how to make coffee, right?”

The nameless barista snorted. 

“Yes, _Patrick,”_ he said condescendingly. “We know how to make coffee. Do you?”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. 

“I’d invite you to my shop and prove it, but I don’t know your name,” he finally replied. “Also, you’re both assholes.”

“Thank you,” Meagan said, grinning. “My name’s Meagan. That’s Brendon. We have a vested interest in protecting Pete, that’s all.”

“Isn’t Pete a big boy?” Patrick asked, taking the coffee Meagan handed him in trepidation. “Does he really need protection?”

“He doesn’t know what’s good for him,” Brendon said. “So if you think you are, you better prove it.”

“Right,” Patrick said slowly. He wasn’t entirely sure that this was real and not an elaborate dream, cooked up by his subconscious as punishment for even thinking about Pete like that. 

Brendon waved. 

“Have a nice day,” he said, and Patrick tried not to think about how much that sounded like a threat.

\-----

“Your pumpkin spice is better than Starbucks,” Hayley said thoughtfully, taking a sip.

“Thanks, Red,” Patrick said, instead of _I know, right?_

“You have the best creations,” Hayley added. Patrick raised an eyebrow. 

“The job’s still open,” he reminded her. “I am totally willing to provide the kitchen for all of your weird baking ideas to come to life.”

“Just because you found success after dropping out doesn’t mean I will,” Hayley sighed. “Besides, my mom might actually kill me. I’d like to think you like me alive.”

“I do,” he said, then grinned. “Nicole does, too.”

“Keep your nose out of my business,” Hayley said firmly. “Nicole is straight.”

“Nicole definitely isn’t,” Patrick said. “But believe what you want. Don’t you have class?”

“Hush,” Hayley said. “I’m enjoying this superior pumpkin spice. Where did you get this idea?”

Her tone was friendly but the look she gave Patrick was not, and Patrick narrowed his eyes. 

“Now who needs to keep her nose out of people’s business?” he asked. Hayley looked unaffected. 

“I hear things through the grapevine,” she said airily. 

“Oh?” Patrick asked. “Is the grapevine named Elisa?”

“I plead the fifth,” Hayley said, which meant yes. “I’m just curious.”

“Stay that way,” Patrick suggested darkly. “I reiterate, don’t you have class?”

“Aren’t you going to decorate?” Hayley asked, instead of answering. 

“For Halloween?” Patrick asked. “What for?”

“To have some iota of joy in your life?” Hayley said. “Come on, I’ll help. Starbucks is decorated.”

“Keep that name out of your mouth,” Patrick said, but it didn’t have much heat to it. “How would I decorate?”

“Leave it to me,” Hayley said. 

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Patrick said in trepidation. 

Turned out Hayley didn’t care if Patrick liked it or not, which is how Patrick found himself craning his neck to look up as Joe balanced somewhat precariously on a ladder.

“I don’t offer workman’s comp,” he called out, but Joe ignored him, draping the fake cobwebs over Patrick’s overhead mood lighting. “That’s a fire hazard.”

“Will you take the stick out of your asshole?” Nicole asked from where she was arranging painted pumpkins on the counter. “Halloween is fun.”

“I’m your boss,” Patrick pointed out uselessly. 

“Yes, and we love you,” Andy said patronizingly. He was the only one actually behind the counter in case actual customers came through, considering Soul Punk was open. He was wearing a t-shirt of a skeleton giving the finger and Patrick sighed. 

“Where’s your apron?” he asked, instead of launching into his lecture on appropriate work attire for the third time that month. Andy shrugged. “I should fire you.”

“Yeah, but you won’t,” Andy said. “More on the left, Joe.”

“Where will we hang the skeleton?” Joe asked. 

“I’m having an aneurysm,” Patrick decided. “That’s why I allowed this.”

“You allowed this because somewhere deep down in your soul, you have a sense of humor,” Nicole said.

“Yeah,” Andy smirked. “I hear it’s name is Pete.”

“All of you shut up,” Patrick said. The bell on Soul Punk’s door chimed and Patrick took a deep breath. 

“Hi,” he said, without looking. “Welcome to Soul Punk. We’re not usually a mess.”

“Beg to differ,” Meredith said breezily. “I’m in search of a hot woman, seen her?”

“I’m right here,” Nicole said, and Meredith rolled her eyes. “She called in sick today.”

Meredith frowned. 

“Called in sick?” she asked. “She’s not at home.”

“She’s not?” Patrick asked, finally looking over. “What do you mean, she’s not?”

“I mean she’s not at home,” Meredith said. “And she’s not answering her phone.”

Patrick reached for his phone automatically, checking it. Nothing. He frowned. 

“That’s not like her,” he said. He thought for a moment before opening the app for his house camera. Yeah, he got it to keep an eye on Penny, but whatever. It took a second to load, but finally it did.

It showed his living room, but most importantly, his couch, where Elisa was lying, curled in a blanket. Patrick’s heart sank. Elisa only ever came over when she didn’t feel safe at home, and she only didn’t feel safe at home when--

Patrick put his phone in his pocket. 

“I’m leaving,” he said, and Meredith bit her lip. “She’s okay, I’ll have her text you.”

“Thanks,” Meredith whispered, and Patrick ducked in the back to pull on his coat before taking the staff exit and heading directly for the red line. The entire trip home was spent fretting, it was just the way he was, and he’d effectively worked himself up to nearly a full panic by the time he was letting himself into his apartment.

“Hey, E?” he called quietly, shutting the door behind him and kicking off his shoes. “It’s me.”

“Hi,” Elisa called softly, and Patrick sat on the floor by the couch, resting his chin on the cushion. 

“What happened?” he asked, and she sighed. 

“He’s right,” she said, and Patrick immediately shook his head. 

“No, he’s not,” he said firmly. “He’s not right, he’ll never be right. He’s a fucking asshole.”

Elisa sighed, and Patrick brushed her hair away from her face. 

“What happened?” he asked again, and Elisa sighed again. 

“He found my insta,” she said. “Found out about Meredith. Said I’d always been a whore and it wouldn’t take very long for Meredith to see I’m worthless.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, trying to fight back his anger. “Well, first of all, he’s the worthless one. Second of all, pretty rich of the dude that had three girlfriends at once to say you’re a whore. He wants you to feel bad because he’s a jerk who gets off on power. You’re not worthless or a whore or fucking anything he says, alright?”

Elisa smiled a little, eyes watery. 

“You have to say that,” she said. “You’re my best friend.”

“When have I ever done something because I _had_ to?” Patrick asked, and Elisa’s smile grew the tiniest bit. “I said it ‘cause I meant it. You’re too good for him. You’ve always been too good for him. And he knows it.”

Elisa wiped her eyes, sniffing a little. 

“Besides,” Patrick said. “Meredith likes you a lot. I’m pretty damn sure she loves you. Are you gonna call her a liar?”

“Never,” Elisa whispered. “You’re a good friend, Patrick Martin.”

“Only for you,” Patrick said, and Elisa sat up. 

“I better text her,” she said sadly. “She’s mad.”

“No,” Patrick said. “Just worried. Text her and we can watch _Say Yes to the Dress.”_

“Promise?” Elisa asked. Patrick nodded. 

“Promise,” he said. 

\-----

“Chai tea,” Pete said, setting the cup in front of Patrick. Patrick frowned, looking from it to Pete. 

“Chai just means tea,” he pointed out. “You’re serving me tea tea.”

“Drink it,” Pete ordered, and Patrick rolled his eyes before taking a sip. “Good boy.”

“Leave your kinks at home,” Patrick said, then sighed. “It’s good.”

“I know,” Pete said proudly. “That’s three drinks you like, now. You’re losing your right to shit talk Starbucks.”

Patrick scowled, but it was an act and Pete knew it. 

“You copied me,” he accused. Pete looked confused, so he elaborated. “The decorations.”

“Corporate told us to do it,” Pete said. “Wait, did you _decorate?_ For Halloween?”

“I was strong armed,” Patrick said. Pete’s grin widened. 

“Are you going to dress up?” he asked hopefully. “Oh my God, we should match.”

“We should _not,”_ Patrick corrected. “You’re dressing up?”

“What kind of loser doesn’t dress up on Halloween?” Pete asked. 

“Aren’t you almost thirty?” Patrick asked. 

“Fun has no age limit,” Pete informed Patrick. “Grow down a little.”

Patrick rolled his eyes.

“What are you dressing up as?” he asked.

“An angel,” Pete said immediately, then smirked. “That means you have to be the Devil.”

“Absolutely not,” Patrick said. “Red isn’t my color.”

“I disagree,” Pete said. “C’mon.”

Patrick sort of hated how much of a pushover Pete turned him into. Not as much as he hated the blinking red devil horns Pete had given him, or the too-tight red pants, but close. God, the pants were _too tight,_ his dick needed breathing room, goddammit. He tried to ignore it--he doubted customers wanted to see him adjust his crotch behind the counter. 

Patrick was also kind of a pushover for his staff. Hey, just because Patrick was no fun didn’t mean they had to be deprived. So he worked so they could mostly goof off all day. It was worth it to see Elisa finally grinning, not to mention the very unsubtle looks Nicole was giving Hayley, who’d dropped in. 

Joe and Andy, dressed for real as Beauty and the Beast (Andy was Beauty) had finished their shifts and beat it. Patrick didn’t ask questions. It left Patrick with Nicole and Elisa, Pikachu and Moana, respectfully, both of them fully distracted by Meredith and Hayley (another Pikachu and Poison Ivy). 

Patrick slid the fortieth pumpkin spice across the counter before taking the headband off and raking a hand through his sweaty hair. He pulled out a bag of candy from under the counter and refilled the bowl Nicole had insisted on, replacing the bowl on the counter and sliding his headband back on. 

The damn thing was still blinking. Patrick could not figure out how to turn it off. 

Hayley took a piece of the candy-- “I’m a customer,” she informed him, mouth full of chocolate-- and Patrick leaned against the counter, grateful for a break in customers. He winced as the bell rang, standing back up until he saw who it was. 

“This is a demonic zone only,” he said firmly. “None of you angel types.”

“Maybe I want to join the dark side,” Pete said, smirking, and Patrick rolled his eyes. “You look good.”

Pete’s appreciative gaze lingered on the front of Patrick’s too-tight pants, and Patrick flushed. 

Pete looked good, too, not that Patrick would tell him that ever. He was wearing equally tight white pants--Patrick tried and failed not to stare at the near-perfect outline of Pete’s very generous dick-- and a white button up partially unbuttoned, with a coffee stain up by the collar and the bottom open to expose a dark tattoo on Pete’s lower stomach. Patrick hated how much he wanted to drop to his knees and trace it with his tongue. 

Completing the look was a crooked cardboard halo on a headband, which pushed his scraggly bangs back enough for Patrick to see his eyes, which were kind of breathtaking. Patrick could easily, _easily_ see himself getting lost in them. Patrick hated himself. 

“What brings you here?” he asked, just to be a dick, and Pete nabbed a piece of candy.

“Heard you had Reese’s,” he said, mouth full. “I’m going now.”

“Don’t trip,” Patrick said, and Pete gave him the finger. “I told you wearing white to work at a coffeeshop was a bad idea.”

“It adds character,” Pete said loftily. “I told you red was your color.”

“Agree to disagree,” Patrick replied, leaning on the counter again. He tried to stop glancing at Pete’s bulge. He tried to stop thinking about pushing Pete onto the couch in the breakroom, straddling him, and grinding down until they both came. It wasn’t very successful. 

Pete gestured at the remaining members of Patrick’s staff (plus guests). 

“Do I get introductions?” he asked, and Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“Elisa,” he said, pointing. “Nicole. Hayley. Meredith.”

“You’re a player,” Pete said. 

“They are all very gay,” Patrick said. Elisa narrowed her eyes. “And bi.”

“And you?” Pete asked, sounding a little hopeful. Patrick felt his cheeks darken but he pushed it a little, very obviously dropping his eyes to Pete’s crotch and biting his lip before looking back at Pete’s wide eyes. 

“Gay,” he said, and Pete swallowed. “You?”

Pete reached forward and thumbed over Patrick’s lower lip.

“Gay enough,” he said. Patrick arched an eyebrow, tongue darting out to touch, Patrick relishing in the shudder Pete gave for it. “That’s not nice.”

“I’m not nice,” Patrick reminded him. “Devil, remember?”

“Yep,” Pete said, looking down at Patrick’s crotch this time. “I see that.”

Patrick bit his lip, opening his mouth to reply only to be cut off abruptly. 

“Excuse me,” Meredith said loudly. Patrick turned, frowning as he saw her balancing precariously on one of his chairs. He’d warn her, but she’d ignore him. 

“Yes?” Nicole asked. “You have the floor, princess.”

“I’m a queen,” Meredith said primly, jumping back down to the floor and adjusting her Pikachu tail. “Anyway, it just happens to be my favorite holiday, and Elisa’s, too. You all might know that Elisa is the love of my life.”

“Stop,” Elisa whispered, cheeks pink, sounding delighted. 

“Never,” Meredith said. “It being our favorite holiday and you being so beautiful, it seems only fitting that I do this right here and right now. No better place or time.”

“Do what?” Elisa asked, before her jaw dropped as Meredith took a knee. “Merry, what are you _doing--”_

“I’m asking you, the most wonderful human I know, to marry my dumb ass,” Meredith said quietly. Elisa’s eyes filled with tears as Meredith held out a ring box, and Patrick couldn’t even try to fight the enormous smile taking over his face. Nicole was taking a video, Hayley taking pictures, and Patrick already had plans to plaster those pictures all over the shop. 

“Yeah,” Elisa choked through what Patrick hoped were happy tears. “Yeah, I’ll marry you.”

“Oh, thank god,” Meredith said, and Patrick burst into applause alongside everyone else as Meredith slid the ring onto Elisa’s finger and kissed her, brushing the tears off her cheeks. Patrick was grinning so hard it hurt--God, Elisa deserved this so much. 

Pete rested his chin on Patrick’s shoulder. 

“How exciting,” he said, and he sounded genuine. “They’re gonna have such a cute wedding. You should host it here.”

“I’m not licensed,” Patrick said. “But yes, it will be cute. They’re both cute.”

“You have such nice friends,” Pete said, and Patrick shot him a grin this time. “Good. You deserve them.”

“You’re too kind,” Patrick said, and, before he could talk himself out of it, pressed a quick kiss to Pete’s cheek. It was slightly scratchy with stubble, skin a little dry, but Pete smelled amazing, so it evened out.

Plus, the red on his cheeks when Patrick pulled back was adorable. 

“Happy Halloween,” Patrick said, and Pete swallowed hard.

\-----

Halloween was always the official end gate of warm weather. It always seemed that November brought in blustery winds and rain and, apparently, the death flu. 

The death flu that took out literally Patrick’s entire staff.

His customers didn’t care if Patrick had staff or not, nor did they care that opening Soul Punk entailed Patrick working from 4:30 in the morning until ten at night by himself. They just wanted their coffee. That was how Patrick found himself ready for death at three in the afternoon, having been working nonstop since he opened at six with no breaks, fueling himself solely on coffee and bites of muffin. Patrick wanted to cry. 

His feet throbbed and his back ached and he’d just watched the last customer leave, leaving the shop blissfully empty. He was ready to collapse, seriously, ready to appreciate the solitude when the bell chimed and Patrick had to actively work not to scream. He pasted on a smile that he hoped looked welcoming and not murderous (though he was sure his usual sweatiness and the steam had turned his skin red and hair wild, so he wasn’t betting on welcoming at the moment.)

“Where are your minions?”

Patrick dropped his head to the counter with a long, drawn out groan. He felt Pete hesitantly pat his head-- _there there_ \--and groaned again. 

“Dead,” he finally answered. “If they know what’s good for them.”

“Did they quit?” Pete asked, sounding alarmed, and Patrick lifted his head and sighed. 

“No,” he said. “They’re all sick. The flu, I guess.”

“All of them?” Pete asked. Patrick nodded. “You’ve been working all day? By yourself?”

“Cloning hasn’t been perfected yet, so yes,” Patrick said. “By myself.”

Pete whistled. 

“Poor thing,” he said. “C’mere, sit down a minute.”

Patrick started to move when the bell chimed again and he tried not to scream and spontaneously combust. Pete stepped to the side as Office Worker Fifty Three approached the counter, already looking like he was annoyed. Great. 

“What can I get you?” Patrick asked. 

“I want four pumpkin spices, two medium, one small, one large, the large is nonfat, the small is with almond milk,” Office Worker Fifty Three rattled off. Patrick was already twitching. “Two white mochas, medium. One black coffee. One hazelnut mocha. Got all that?”

“What size for the last two?” Patrick asked, as politely as he could.

“Both medium,” Office Worker Fifty Three said. “And can you maybe do it a little faster than last time? I don’t have all day.”

Patrick didn’t answer because he wasn’t entirely sure he was even capable of saying anything remotely polite to that after today, just reached for the first pumpkin spice as the bell rang again. Patrick wanted to burn the shop down, success be damned. 

“Hi,” College Sophomore said brightly. “Two white mochas, please.”

“Sure,” Patrick said, trying to keep himself under control as yet another customer walked in, the line of cups waiting for their drinks just growing. The newcomer wanted a pumpkin spice, the two behind him wanted hot chocolates, and Patrick was considering walking into Lake Michigan and drowning himself. 

Abruptly, the cup and sharpie were plucked from his hands and he jumped in surprise, staring over at Pete incredulously. Pete finished writing whatever the customer had said on the cup before glancing back at Patrick. 

“I’m capable of writing orders,” he said firmly. “And if they stop coming, I know how to make drinks.”

“You don’t have to,” Patrick said weakly. Pete grinned softly at him, leaning over to kiss his cheek. 

“I know,” he said simply, and Patrick swallowed. “Go on.”

Somehow, Patrick managed, getting through order after order as Pete handed them down. With the exception of a fucking painful steamer wand burn he gave himself, it mostly went fine, the line slowly dying down until there was no one left and Patrick stood behind the espresso machine, trying valiantly not to sink to the floor.

“You--” he began, mouth dry. Pete flashed him a smile, and Patrick took a deep breath. “Thank you. You have no idea--just. Thank you.”

“How could I watch you go through that?” Pete asked. “Turns out my corporate influence comes in handy sometimes. I definitely wasn’t taking notes to send to Seattle.”

“You’re amazing,” Patrick said honestly, and Pete’s dark eyes widened. “Seriously. Amazing. Thank you so much. Let me pay you.”

Pete shook his head. 

“You don’t have to,” he said gently. “My boss doesn’t let us take sick days. I bet you’re paying your staff anyway. You don’t need to pay me, I was helping.”

“It’s been like--” Patrick glanced at the clock. “Holy shit, like four hours, Pete. I cannot take advantage of you like that.”

“It’s not taking advantage if I offered the help,” Pete said firmly. “And I offered it.”

“I need to repay you,” Patrick said helplessly. Pete cracked a grin.

“You could take me to dinner,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I think dinner with you is more valuable than my entire paycheck.”

Patrick was blushing somewhere under the sweat, he knew it, and he gaped a little as Pete winked at him.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, okay. Dinner.”

“This just became the best day of my life,” Pete said, and Patrick couldn’t help but grin.

\------

Pete was out of Patrick’s league. 

That was the only thing bouncing around Patrick’s head as he bit his lip, staring at himself in the mirror. Comparing him to Pete--it wasn’t even a competition. Patrick had no idea what Pete even saw in Patrick, if he saw anything. It was probably only pity. Patrick was wearing his nicest shirt, an actual button-up instead of the worn graphic t-shirts he wore in the shop. His hair was clean and he wasn’t sweaty, but even in the nicest clothes he owned, he was still completely not in the same ballpark as Pete, let alone the same league.

That thought just repeated in Patrick’s head as he took CTA down to the Loop, getting off three stops before his shop and making his way to a fairly expensive sushi place that both he and Pete liked. This was going to be a disaster. Patrick had no idea how to be a human. Pete was probably used to, like, witty intellectuals or pretty models, not some college dropout coffeeshop owner who sometimes shook a little when he had to talk in public. 

If he didn’t majorly owe Pete for helping him when he needed it so badly, Patrick would never put himself out there like this. It hurt too badly when it inevitably failed. See: his last two relationships, both of whom found someone better about a year in, and left him with pathetic excuses and less than graceful retreats. It still stung, no matter how much he defended them. 

“So, like, this was a really good idea.”

Patrick jumped and turned quickly, boots sliding on the icy ground. Pete caught his arm before he landed on his ass, balancing him before shooting him a quick grin. Patrick’s breath caught immediately as he really looked at Pete, that ugly voice shouting insults at Patrick’s whole existence growing louder. 

It--it looked like Pete put in effort, like he wanted to do this, like Patrick mattered at all. He’d straightened and artfully arranged his hair, and he wore a coat that seemed to emphasize Pete’s muscles rather than hide them. He flashed Patrick another smile, and Patrick swallowed hard. 

“Sorry,” he said, and Pete’s grin faltered. 

“For?” he asked, and Patrick sighed before gesturing at himself.

“This is as good as it gets,” he said, and Pete tilted his head. 

“You’re so hot it should be illegal and you think the way you look is _bad?”_ Pete asked in disbelief. “I see I have a lot to teach you. It’s okay, I’m patient. C’mon.”

Pete didn’t give Patrick a second to reply, just opened the door to the restaurant and gestured for Patrick to precede him. Patrick faltered by the hostess booth and Pete pressed entirely more of his body against Patrick’s than he needed to slip by him. Everywhere Pete touched Patrick burned and Patrick felt a little helpless. 

He sort of numbly followed Pete to the booth they were shown to, shrugging off his jacket and trying not to wince. Pete nudged his ankle lightly before hooking his leg with Patrick’s, giving Patrick a wicked grin. 

“Has your staff recovered?” Pete asked, thumbing at the corner of the menu. 

“Thankfully,” Patrick said. He was also thankful that he only ever ordered the dragon roll from here, so he didn’t have to look at the menu. “I was only a little passive aggressive.”

“You’re practically a saint,” Pete said, then winked. “You’re as pretty as one.”

“Saints are all dead,” Patrick reminded him, and Pete rolled his eyes. “You--you too.”

“Me too what?” Pete asked, like a challenge, and Patrick swallowed, cheeks hot.

“You’re--you’re really fucking hot,” he managed, face just getting hotter. “It’s unfair.”

“Wow,” Pete said, grinning. “I feel like I won the lottery. Do you like me? Check yes or no.”

“Yes,” Patrick blurted out, before he could stop himself. “I’m so not good enough for you. Fuck. Why can’t I stop talking?”

“It’s the endorphins,” Pete said, then cocked his head. “What do you mean, you’re not good enough for me?”

Patrick licked his lips, mouth dry.

“I mean,” he said, gesturing uselessly at Pete’s perfect fucking everything. “You’re, like. You’re you. Gorgeous. And I’m me. Very not.”

“You are very wrong,” Pete said firmly. “And I would be thrilled to prove it to you.”

“It’ll be very difficult,” Patrick said doubtfully, handing the menu to the waitress. Pete grinned, propping his hand on his fist.

“I like a challenge,” he said. “Why did you open a coffeeshop?”

Patrick sighed, tugging his chopsticks closer and fiddling with them.

“To be honest,” he said. “I was a fucking mess. Elisa had a goal and a vision and, for some reason, thought I’d be perfect to help. Something about me being anal-retentive. But it was good, really good for me. Better than moping like I had been.”

“Do you like it?” Pete asked. 

“The coffeeshop?” Patrick asked. Pete nodded. “I love it. I really feel like it’s the best possible thing I could have done. I was never meant for school, I never had direction until Elisa came up with the shop. Now I can’t imagine not having it.”

“Why were you a mess?” Pete asked. Patrick swallowed, lacing his fingers together. 

“I had just been dumped for someone else twice in a row,” he said carefully. “The first one, Bob, he’d been cheating on me for months. Travie was better, he never cheated, but it still didn’t feel great. You know?”

“Yeah,” Pete said quietly. “Been there. She met someone else, then go back with me, then met someone else again. I don’t know why I fell for it the second time, I’m just an idiot.”

“No,” Patrick disagreed. “Not an idiot. Just optimistic. I get it.”

Pete flashed him a smile. 

“Nobody I’d rather be optimistic for than you,” he said. “I dated one guy before but it didn’t go very well. The sex was fine, but he wasn’t. I considered myself gay above the waist until I met you.”

“Oh?” Patrick managed, cheeks hot. Pete smiled kindly as the waitress set their food down, watching her walk away before fixing Patrick with a look so goddamn sexy Patrick thought he might be melting. 

“Yeah,” he said. “You came into Starbucks and I forgot my own name. You’re so gorgeous, it’s not fair. Do you know how close I was to dropping to my knees for you on Halloween? Red is most definitely a good color on you.”

Patrick’s mouth went dry.

“You can’t say shit like that,” he said, and Pete smirked.

“It’s not like you could keep your eyes off my dick,” Pete said. “I wore the tight pants for a reason.”

“Oh my God,” Patrick said faintly. 

“Finish your sushi,” Pete said. “And I can make you say that all night.”

\----

Pete didn’t even kind of pretend he was following Patrick home with any other intention than fucking Patrick’s brains out. Patrick appreciated the transparency. He didn’t have any coherent thought left to keep up a flirty charade, not when his mouth was watering just thinking of sucking Pete’s cock and Pete’s hand burned where it was wrapped around his hip.

It was a miracle Patrick was able to unlock his front door, open it, close it, lock it again, _and_ make it to his bedroom before Pete was on him. The first press of Pete’s lips to Patrick’s was electrifying, sending a shiver through Patrick’s body as he hungrily kissed back. Pete’s mouth was wet and warm and he was so eager it was a little sloppy, but Patrick didn’t care, tangling one hand in Pete’s hair and sliding his other down Pete’s chest to cup his cock, which was very interested in what was happening.

So was Patrick’s. For the record.

“Fuck,” Pete panted, breaking away. “Fuck, you’re too hot, I’m gonna come.”

“Not yet,” Patrick said. “You wait your turn.”

“Oh, God,” Pete moaned. “Please tell me I can fuck that mouth.”

Patrick dropped to his knees and Pete groaned, tanging his fingers in Patrick’s hair as Patrick undid Pete’s belt and the button on his pants. Together, they worked the pants down until Pete’s cock sprung free. It was just as good as Patrick imagined it, tip wet with precome, which Patrick licked off. 

Pete moaned again and Patrick dragged his lips down the length of Pete’s hot, hard cock, leaving tiny licks as he went. By the time he reached Pete’s balls, Pete cursed, grip tightening in Patrick’s hair, and Patrick decided that he was done teasing.

“Oh fuck,” Pete managed as Patrick deepthroated. “Oh fuck, your mouth. Let me fuck your mouth.”

Patrick wrapped a hand around the base of Pete’s cock so Patrick wouldn’t actually choke to death on it, and sat back, letting Pete thrust, lightly at first, but harder as Patrick stayed still. Patrick let Pete’s cock hit the back of his throat a couple times and Pete growled, yanking Patrick’s head down for a long moment. 

“You’re so good,” Pete panted as Patrick pulled off. Patrick smirked. “Fuck, you’re hot. You like getting eaten out?”

Patrick moaned in response and let Pete pull him up and work at his clothes. In between hot, biting kisses, they stripped, Pete pushing Patrick onto the bed and urging his legs apart. 

“You got lube?” Pete asked, then winked. “For later?”

Patrick nodded, reaching blindly into the drawer by his bed and withdrawing a condom along with the lube. Pete pushed Patrick’s thighs farther apart, mouthing down the inside of one, leaving marks on Patrick’s pale skin. Patrick gasped, clenching a little without meaning to as Pete pressed a wet finger lightly to his hole.

“I hope you’re loud,” Pete said. “I wanna hear how this makes you feel.”

Pete didn’t give him time to react to that, just licked a hot stripe across Patrick’s hole. Patrick cried out, reaching down to pull on Pete’s hair with one hand and grip the sheets underneath him with the other, back arching. Patrick was usually loud in bed, it was the chief complaint he’d gotten from boyfriends, but he couldn’t help it. Pete in particular was so good, he was _so good_ , yeah, yes, right there, _Pete--_

“You’re hot,” Pete growled, wiping off his mouth. “You’re hot and you sound beautiful and taste amazing, holy shit. Thanks for coming to Starbucks.”

“Fuck me,” Patrick gasped, and Pete lubed up his fingers. “Fuck me, please, I wanna feel your cock, I wanna scream, Pete, _please--”_

“You’re gonna make me nut before I even get inside you,” Pete grunted, slipping two fingers into Patrick carefully. Patrick moaned, bearing down, gasping as Pete scissored his fingers before curling them, rubbing against Patrick’s prostate. Pete pushed a third one in, and it was a little soon, burned a little, but Patrick ignored it, whining for more. 

“Okay,” Pete muttered, pushing a pillow under Patrick’s hips and lining up. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Patrick panted. “Yeah, c’mon--”

Patrick arched his back again as Pete pushed in, all the way with one solid thrust, and fuck, Patrick had forgotten how good it felt getting fucked. Pete’s rhythm was relentless, pounding into him, hitting his prostate nearly dead on, and Patrick couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone speak, just whimpered and cried out and yeah, _screamed_ as Pete fucked harder, losing some of his control as he evidently got close. 

“Gonna come?” Pete said tightly, eyes screwed shut. Patrick moaned and nodded, beginning to stroke himself erratically. “Yeah? Yeah, come, come on, fucking come--”

 _“Pete!”_ Patrick screamed as he finally came, shaking underneath Pete as his thrusts didn’t stop. Patrick gasped for breath as Pete let up, gently pulling out only to straddle Patrick’s chest. 

“Can I come on your face?” Pete asked, dark eyes wide, forehead beaded in sweat. He sounded a little desperate. Patrick licked his lips and nodded and Pete groaned, practically ripping off the condom. He started stroking himself hard, staring down at Patrick like he couldn’t believe he was real, and as Patrick reached up to wrap a hand around Pete’s on his cock, Pete came in wet, white streaks across Patrick’s cheek and nose and lips. 

Pete collapsed, barely stopping his fall before he crushed Patrick. He rolled off carefully, before kissing Patrick despite Pete’s come all over his mouth. 

Patrick kissed back lazily, entire body weak and floaty. He was ready to snuggle and sleep and he wasn’t sorry.

“Goddamn,” Pete whispered, voice hoarse. “Goddamn, Patrick, you’re the hottest thing I have ever seen.”

Patrick grinned, biting his lip.

“Not as hot as you,” he said, and Pete kissed him again before lying next to him and tugging him close, tossing a leg over Patrick’s. Patrick grinned harder, tucking his face into Pete’s chest. He’d wake up sticky and annoyed, but right now, it was worth it. 

He fell asleep as Pete began to snore.

\-----

“Good morning,” Pete said into Patrick’s ear. “Quick question--do angels eat breakfast?”

“You should be able to answer that question,” Patrick mumbled, rolling over to kiss Pete gently. “Or were you offering to feed me breakfast?”

“Hmm,” Pete said thoughtfully, running his hand through Patrick’s likely-atrocious hair. “I could feed you breakfast. I’m a shit cook, though, do you accept diners?”

“I accept anything that includes coffee,” Patrick said. “Except Starbucks.”

“You’re officially not allowed to hate Starbucks anymore,” Pete snorted. “Not after last night. Which was excellent, by the way. I’m down for a repeat any time you are.”

“Feed me breakfast and we’ll talk,” Patrick said. “God, your breath stinks.”

They ended up at a diner two blocks down from Patrick’s apartment, playing footsie under the table entirely more aggressively than was necessary. Pete was cracking up, though, so Patrick didn’t mind continuing as he borderline shoveled pancakes into his mouth. Pete, unsurprisingly, ate at a more reasonable pace, but Patrick was proud of his swamp monster manners in the morning, and Pete better get used to it. If this thing were to continue. 

Patrick thought for half a second about asking Pete, clarifying if the sex was a one-time-only, one night stand sort of thing or if maybe possibly this made Pete Patrick’s boyfriend, but then Pete jabbed Patrick in the calf with his shoe while smiling innocently over the rim of his coffee cup and Patrick lost all his nerve. 

That probably wasn’t a morning after question anyway, right? That was a later question, now wasn’t the time. Patrick was pretty sure it worked like that, at least. 

“So,” Pete said, as Patrick cut a human-sized bite out of his pancakes this time. “Is diner food cheating on your cafe?”

“No,” Patrick shrugged. “Although if Hayley accepted my offer of employment it might be. I’m telling you, everything she cooks is amazing. I don’t know how she does it.”

“Some people are just talented, I guess,” Pete said, before smirking. “You’d know. Your mouth. A natural, I say.”

“You’re gross,” Patrick said, flushing. “And you? Is diner food cheating on the almighty Starbucks?”

“Not if it’s in the company of a cute guy,” Pete said, and Patrick raised an eyebrow, twisting around. 

“Really?” he asked, deadpan. “Where is he?”

“Fucker,” Pete said lightly. “Do you work today or is it all your minions?”

“I have scheduling and ordering to do, so not out front,” Patrick said. “And you?”

“I close,” Pete said. “If you wanted to cheat on Soul Punk.”

“I never want to cheat on Soul Punk,” Patrick informed him, turning his nose up. “I just go to enjoy the _scenery.”_

“That’s my line,” Pete objected. “Well, come enjoy the scenery tonight, preferably between the hours of 2 PM to 6 PM or 6:30 PM to 10 PM, as I take lunch at six.”

“Come at six, got it,” Patrick said, smirking. Pete rolled his eyes, reaching out and poking the sugar container back in line with the creamer before sighing. 

“So this is dumb,” he said.

“Doubt it,” Patrick replied. “But continue.”

Pete rolled his eyes again. 

“It is dumb,” he said. “But I wrote this novel. Or whatever. And I was going to send it to publishers hopefully. It’s like, a load of crap, but if you were interested in reading it that would be cool.”

“I’m very interested in reading it,” Patrick said, resting his chin on his hand. “What’s it about?”

“This guy,” Pete said. “Who really, really likes this other guy that is completely out of his league.”

“So it’s my autobiography,” Patrick said, and Pete actually flushed a little, pink in his cheeks. “Bring me a copy.”

“Only if you promise to cheat on Soul Punk,” Pete said, and Patrick held out a pinkie. “Really? A pinky promise?”

“It’s legally binding,” Patrick said, and Pete rolled his eyes before hooking his pinkie with Patrick’s. “I’ll see you then.”

“Sounds great,” Pete said and Patrick grinned. 

\----

Patrick made it to Pete’s Starbucks at 6:45, one of Hayley’s cookies wrapped carefully in the pocket of his coat. It was chilly, the famous Chicago wind blowing by, so Patrick didn’t hesitate outside for too long, even though he was so nervous he could puke. He sucked in a deep breath of cold air and pulled open the door, stepping inside and joining the line. It wasn’t too long, but it was made up of exclusively tall people, so Patrick would be hidden basically until he got to the counter. Pete would be completely surprised.

Patrick tried not to grin just thinking of Pete. That was ridiculous. 

Pete’s loud, borderline obnoxious laughter broke past Patrick’s reservations and he grinned hard anyway, sticking his hand in the pocket of the coat and checking on the cookie. One piece, good. 

“Not to change the subject from my wonderful English essay,” Brendon said, loudly over the steamer. “But can we talk about your hookup?”

“Is that appropriate?” someone ahead of Patrick asked. 

“Do I look like I care?” Brendon answered, before calling out a drink. “White mocha!”

“Anyway,” Meagan said, slamming something into the blender and flipping it on. “Let’s talk about it. You’ve been on about him for weeks and you finally conquered him and now you wanna shut up about it?”

“Did you fuck up in bed?” Brendon cracked. “I bet you embarrassed yourself. Come on. Your hookups are my only source of entertainment.”

“Get a new hobby,” Pete suggested. 

“That takes work,” Brendon said. “Pumpkin spice! On a scale of 1-10, how is he compared to the last three guys you hit and quit?”

“That expression says ten,” Meagan snorted. “Man, it’s gonna be hard for you to let this one go, isn’t it? We should find you another so you don’t get attached.”

Pete may or may not have responded, but Patrick couldn’t hear anything over the pounding in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears. He was flushing red, he knew he was, his face was hot and his mouth was dry. 

He thought.

He _actually_ thought.

His hands were shaking as he pushed the door open and all but ran from the Starbucks. _He_ was shaking, trying to hold back tears as he made it to the CTA stop, gripping the side of the bus shelter to keep himself upright. 

He shouldn’t have listened to Elisa, shouldn’t have tried again. He knew this would happen, this _always_ happened, Patrick _never_ got something good in relationships. He shouldn’t have put himself out there, or opened his heart or legs to Pete, shouldn’t have _tried._ He never wanted to feel like this again, but he was stupid enough to be vulnerable so he deserved it. 

He bitterly hated the small part of him that had really hoped that maybe, just maybe, Pete would wind up being different.

He was stupid.

He was so stupid to hope.

“That was a quick trip,” Elisa said, but her words seemed to die in her throat when she saw Patrick. Patrick had no idea what he looked like, but it probably wasn’t great. He hadn’t cried yet, but he felt seconds from it. “Patrick?”

“It was a joke,” he managed. “Him and me. He never intended--I guess he has a long string of one night stands that I’m just the latest of. He was laughing about it when I got there. It was just a fucking joke.”

“Patrick,” Elisa breathed quietly, eyes watery. “Oh, _Patrick.”_

“I knew it would happen,” Patrick choked. “I told you it would. I told you.”

“Patrick,” Elisa said, and pulled him into her arms. Patrick couldn’t stop the tears anymore, just choked on sobs into her shoulder in the stockroom of his goddamn coffeeshop. 

Which, of course, was how Andy found them. Perfect. Because Patrick wanted his staff to see him crying over what apparently only counted as a hookup. That totally made him seem like great boss material.

“Patrick?” Andy asked, but Elisa shooed him.

“Leave,” she said firmly. “I don’t care what we’re out of, it can wait.”

Andy listened, backing out of the storeroom, and Elisa squeezed him. 

“Come on,” she said. “Come on, let’s go home. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Patrick.”

Patrick just swallowed and tried hard to stop the tears. 

\----

The news inevitably spread to Patrick’s staff. It was nice that they were furious on his behalf, but Patrick was mostly humiliated that it happened at all. He thought he was smarter than that. Guess he was wrong. 

“The tree is too tall for the counter,” he said, leaning against one of his tables. There was something deeply wrong with him that he was allowing them to go crazy with holiday decorations. He wondered very briefly if he still had an inoperable brain tumor or something. Joe had balanced a large menorah on top of the mugs cabinet and Hayley and Nicole were wrestling with where to put a three foot lighted fake tree. It was a disaster. “It’s barely December first.”

“Yep,” Joe said cheerfully, taping the base of the menorah. “We gotta get on this shit.”

“It looks like December threw up in here,” Patrick said, glancing at the window where Elisa was painting a snowy scene with paint she swore would wash off. Her tongue was between her teeth as she carefully constructed a snowman. Patrick’s heart ached.

Elisa was such an amazing friend. She’d spent the last two weeks almost exclusively with Patrick, even though she was engaged. She swore Meredith didn’t mind, she promised that the entire staff and all Patrick’s friends only cared that Patrick was hurting. They didn’t mind that Patrick barely talked to anyone most of the time. They just wanted him to be happy again.

Patrick wondered how he got such amazing people in his life. 

Elisa was nearly done with the snowman and Patrick watched for a moment until movement on the sidewalk caught his eye. He took a closer look, wondering if it was a customer that he’d have to assume some sort of professional air for, but then his mind registered straightened black hair and he panicked. 

Without a word to anyone, he turned and all but ran into the stockroom, ducking around the swinging door and biting his lip to avoid crying like an idiot. 

The bell chimed and Patrick felt a flash of anger interrupt his semi-heartbreak. The audacity. The absolute fucking _audacity_ of Pete coming to _Patrick’s shop,_ as if he didn’t lead Patrick on like he had, as if Patrick was anything but another person to _conquer._

Part of Patrick wanted to storm out and give Pete every piece of his mind, but he knew he’d never make it through his rant without breaking down into tears. The last thing Patrick wanted is for Pete to see him cry over whatever had happened. 

“Can I help you?” Andy asked coldly. Patrick could feel the shift in energy in the shop even through the door--the nearly cheerful, relaxed atmosphere vanished as soon as Pete walked through the door. 

“Um,” Pete said. “I was looking for Patrick.”

“Keep looking,” Joe suggested, voice equally frosty. “Preferably somewhere else.”

“What?” Pete asked, sounding taken aback. 

“Let me translate,” Elisa snapped. “Get out of my shop and don’t come back. That clear enough for you?”

“Did I do something?” Pete asked and Patrick’s eyes widened.

 _No!_ he wanted to shout, before Elisa or Hayley spilled it, but there was nothing he could do but listen helplessly, eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping the sleeves of his sweater. 

“Oh, let’s see,” Hayley said mockingly. “It might have something to do with the fact that you led Patrick on like the asshole you are.”

“Led him on?” Pete demanded, and he sounded a little angry. “Me? I’m not the one who went radio silent for two weeks and practically dropped off the face of the planet after going on a date.”

“A date?” Joe said, laughing mockingly. “Is that what you call a date? Letting him believe you were really into him but only seeing him as a _conquest?”_

Patrick’s staff really knew too much about what had happened. Not for the first time, Patrick wondered if he should cut their gossip train off. Despite his anger and hurt, he strained to hear Pete’s response.

“What?” he asked quietly, apparently dumbfounded. “No. We went on a date. We planned to meet at Starbucks later. He never showed.”

“He showed,” Elisa snapped, and Patrick winced. “He showed and heard you joking about conquering him with your little friends. He doesn’t want anything to do with you. Get out of my shop.”

Pete nearly gasped and Patrick could see him shake his head, probably wringing his hands. It sucked worse now that Patrick knew so much about Pete. 

“No,” Pete said desperately. “No, you mean what Brendon said? Brendon’s an asshole, he and Meagan both have shitty senses of humor, it wasn’t like that. I don’t see Patrick like that, I like Patrick. It’s not what it looks like.”

“Cool,” Elisa said. “I don’t care and I don’t believe you.”

“Please,” Pete begged. “Please, let me explain, I’ll bring them both here, they’ll explain. Please.”

“Nope,” Elisa said. “Get out and don’t come back.”

“But--”

“Bye,” Joe snapped, and there was silence for a moment before the bell rang again and a tear slipped down Patrick’s face. 

Two seconds later, Elisa ducked ino the back and hugged him immediately, rubbing his back gently. Patrick choked on full blown tears and rested his head on her shoulder. 

“He’s lying,” Elisa said. “I know it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Patrick said, and wished he meant it. 

\-----

The snow had slowed business down enough that Patrick covered closing so his kids could go to the holiday parade. It was two weeks until Christmas, and Patrick had a heart somewhere under the seventeen locks he’d put up since Pete. Besides, Nicole and Hayley looked like they might actually do something as wild as date, and the frost covering Patrick thawed a tiny bit watching them flirt. 

The shop was empty, the snow falling outside shining in the streetlights. Headlights from cars periodically shone through the window, but despite the fact that outside was alive, Patrick felt a little alone. He tried to ignore it, humming the generic Christmas music they played in the shop as he wiped down tables and the creamer bar. He had an hour until close. Might as well take advantage of the loneliness to ease his closing tasks. 

He moved to the counter, wiping it down, and wiped down the machines, too, just because. He’d just finished the steamer when the bell chimed. 

“Hi,” he said. “Welcome to Soul Punk. What can I get you?”

He glanced up and his heart shot into his throat, choking him for a moment. He swallowed, willing his voice to sound normal, unaffected even. 

Brendon, to his credit, looked both uncomfortable and regretful, lip between his teeth, hands in his pockets. Meagan was looking anywhere but at Patrick, like she was embarrassed, which. Whatever. Fuck them.

“Can I help you?” he asked flatly. Brendon sighed. 

“So we fucked up big time,” he said. “And Pete said we didn’t have to do anything but we kinda do, you know? Cause it’s our fault that Pete’s miserable now.”

“Cool,” Patrick said. “Hurry up and make your point.”

“We have a shitty sense of humor,” Meagan said. “Like, really shitty. Pete’s had his heart broken over and over, for, like, three relationships now. People hit and quit him or ghost him or whatever. And at first we were pissed because it seemed like you were just another one, but then Pete explained that you heard our jokes. And of course you didn’t get it. I don’t blame you for taking it the way you did. But I swear it wasn’t like that. It’s not like that. Pete likes you, you weren’t just a one night stand.”

“It’s easier to think of Pete’s string of heartbreaks like he was the player,” Brendon said. “It makes it better for him. We joke around too much with that now. We never meant for this to happen. We didn’t want you to get hurt, or Pete.”

Patrick stayed silent and Brendon sighed, dropping his head for a moment before taking a deep breath and stepping close to Patrick, holding out a hand. 

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Brendon. I’m Pete’s friend.”

Patrick slowly took Brendon’s offered hand, shaking it with one eyebrow raised. 

“I know,” he said. “Your point?”

“I’m starting over,” Brendon said, shaking Patrick’s hand for emphasis. “The first time we met I kinda acted shitty to begin with, and then I fucked everything up, so. Please. Let me start over. Because I think you’re a good guy and Pete likes you. So, I’m Brendon. I’m Pete’s friend. I’m kind of the worst.”

Patrick felt the ghost of a smile cross his face as Brendon shook his hand again. 

“I’m Patrick,” he said quietly. Brendon flashed him a small grin, stepping aside for Meagan to copy him.

“I’m Meagan,” she said. “I’m also Pete’s friend. I’ve known Pete since college. Nice to meet you.”

Patrick nodded, dropping his hand to his side. Brendon took a deep breath, glancing around the shop. 

“It’s nicer than Starbucks,” he offered. “More comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said, not able to think of anything else. Meagan sighed.

“Please believe us,” she said. “I can tell by your face that you’re not sure, but please. Pete wouldn’t do that. He was so excited when he came to work after your date. He literally would not shut up about you and how happy he was that you were coming and it crushed him when you didn’t. And it was our fault. I might never forgive myself if you don’t believe me. It was a shitty joke. A really shitty joke. That’s all.”

Patrick swallowed, twisting his hands in his apron. Meagan glanced at Brendon and sighed. 

“Think about it?” she asked. 

“I’ll think about it,” Patrick said quietly. Brendon nodded. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

With that, he and Meagan backed out the door, leaving Patrick clutching his rag with one hand and his apron with the other, lost.

\----

“Do you think they meant it?” Elisa asked quietly. She was sitting with Patrick in his window seat, sipping hot chocolate and watching the snow fall on the streets. It was quiet and dark in Patrick’s apartment, the only light the Christmas lights Elisa bullied him into hanging up and the streetlights from outside. 

Patrick sighed.

“I don’t know if they meant it or not,” he said. “I don’t even know if I want it to be true. I mean, I do. I really liked him, E.”

“I know,” Elisa said, resting her head on his shoulder. “How can he prove it?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said. “I’m afraid that if I choose to believe it, I’ll always have doubt.”

Elisa made a sympathetic sound. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For pushing you toward him. I hated seeing you lonely. I thought I was helping.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Patrick protested. “You just wanted me to be happy.”

“It made me cry to see you cry,” Elisa said. “I thought Pete was better. I really did.”

“Maybe he is,” Patrick said, and that traitorous little flame of hope lit itself back up in Patrick’s chest. “Maybe they are telling the truth. I don’t--I don’t feel the same as I did with Travie, or Bob. With them, I knew for months they were gonna leave me. I didn’t know Bob was cheating, but I knew it wouldn’t end well. I didn’t feel that with Pete. Maybe I still don’t, I don’t know.”

“Is it worth talking to him about?” Elisa asked. 

“I don’t know,” Patrick said helplessly. “I wish I could know for sure if he meant it.”

Elisa sighed. 

“I really don’t want to be the one that pushes you towards bullshit again,” she said apprehensively. 

“But?” Patrick asked. 

“But,” Elisa continued. “If he considered you a one night stand, why would he work so hard to get you back? Why would he care? My knee jerk reaction is to call him an asshole and deck him, but if I think past that--what would be the point for him _and_ his friends to work so hard to convince you?”

Patrick’s breath caught. Tears swam in his eyes and he blinked them away quickly, grip tightening on his _eat a bag of dicks_ mug, the same one he served coffee to Pete in. Elisa was right. She was right, and it gave fuel to the little fire of hope in his chest and Patrick hated it. 

Hope hurt. Hope always hurt.

“I think I want it to be true,” Patrick said. “But maybe I just want to be liked.”

“Trick,” Elisa said softly, but whatever she was going to say was derailed by a knock at Patrick’s door. She looked at it with narrowed eyes. “It’s like 10 pm. Surely no deliveries happen this late?”

“I didn’t order anything,” Patrick said, frowning. He set his mug on the windowsill and stood, tugging down his shirt as he crossed to his door and peeked out the peephole. 

Nobody was there, so Patrick cracked the door open to see a badly-wrapped box by his door. He poked it with his toe apprehensively, but it didn’t explode or melt or anything, so he stooped to pick it up, carrying it back inside. 

“It’s a box,” Elisa noted, standing as well and wandering over to Patrick’s kitchen table. “Open it.”

“Chill,” Patrick said, but did. The paper covering the box, depicting cheerful Santas and snowflakes, ripped with ease, applied too hastily to last. The actual box was a shoebox, and Patrick took off the lid, frowning, only to go absolutely still. 

“What?” Elisa asked, craning her neck to look over Patrick’s shoulder. “It’s a binder.”

“It’s…” Patrick said hoarsely. “It’s from Pete.”

“What?” Elisa asked, taking the binder out of Patrick’s hands and opening it to the first page. “ _Folie a Deux_. What is it?”

“It’s his book,” Patrick said, clearing his throat. “The book he wanted me to read. It’s...he wrote it about me. Or so he claimed.”

“There’s a note,” Elisa said, hesitating for a moment before sighing and handing to binder back over. “You don’t _have_ to read it.”

“I know,” Patrick whispered. “But I kind of want to.”

Elisa took Patrick’s arm and lead him back to the window seat, rubbing his shoulder as Patrick stared kind of blankly down at the book. His thumb ran along the plastic edge of the binder, callouses catching on the corner where the plastic was worn and slightly cracked. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, blinking stupid fucking tears out of his eyes and taking a deep breath.

He flipped the binder open and stared down at Pete’s cramped handwriting, suddenly scared. What if--what if this said something Patrick didn’t want to hear, like Pete was giving up on him or never liked him or--

“Do you want me to read it to you?” Elisa asked softly, and Patrick’s breath caught as he nodded. 

“Please,” he said, and Elisa cleared her throat, resting her cheek on Patrick’s shoulder and tugging the binder closer. 

“Patrick,” she said, and Patrick took several deep breaths. “I don’t have an excuse for what Brendon and Meagan said. It was a shitty joke. I should have shut them up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that and I’m sorry I waited so long to try and talk to you. I just didn’t want to bother you. You aren’t just a notch in my bedpost and you never have been. I’m so fucking sorry things got so fucked up and confused, because it cost me you and I didn’t want to lose you. I like you so much, Patrick. I want so badly to see you again, I want to apologize in person, but I respect it if you don’t want to see me. But I promised you the book, so here it is. Yours to keep. I’m sorry, Patrick.”

Hot tears were sliding down Patrick’s cheeks by the time Elisa finished, and she wrapped her arms around him tight as he tried and failed to get himself together. 

“Do you think he’s lying?” Patrick gasped, and Elisa kissed his cheek, wiping the tears off his face as best she could. “E, please.”

“I don’t know,” Elisa said softly. “But my gut instinct says no.”

Patrick sniffed and Elisa squeezed him tight. Patrick’s grip went tight on Pete’s book as silence took over the room, Elisa holding Patrick as he cried, the snow falling outside, the night dark.

\----

Patrick didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Elisa was knocked out on his couch but Patrick couldn’t sleep, unable to put the book down at all, reading through it three whole times before he could even manage to scrape together two words that made sense. Any doubt he had that the book was about him went flying out the window after the first read-through, and each subsequent read-through just made it more and more obvious. 

Pete was writing about him. From the part about _pitching himself as leads in other people’s dreams_ to the object of the unnamed main character’s affections having _troubled thoughts and the self esteem to match._ Every word made Patrick want to cry harder, until it was seven in the morning and he hadn’t slept a wink. Elisa looked at him and sighed and Patrick knew what he was going to do.

Standing outside Starbucks was just as intimidating as it was the last time he’d come. The wind was just as cold, and Patrick had forgotten his gloves so his hands were like ice as they clutched the binder. He could just see Brendon through the window, and he had no idea if Pete was even working but he had to try. He had to.

It ached to read Pete’s words. It hit something in Patrick’s chest he’d tried so hard to keep guarded, igniting the fuel that made the flames of hope light up again. Patrick didn’t want to hope, he hated hoping, because hoping always lead to hurt, but Pete’s words made him hope anyway.

They made him hope that Pete was telling the truth. That Pete still liked him like Patrick did, like Patrick couldn’t make himself stop doing. 

He wanted to hear it from Pete so badly so he took a deep breath of icy air and pulled the door open.

It was deserted this time, and Brendon didn’t look up at all, focusing on the cup he was doodling penises on. 

“Welcome to Starbucks,” he said in a flat, uninterested tone. “If you order a pumpkin spice, I’m legally obligated to kill you.”

Patrick swallowed. 

“I don’t want your shitty coffee,” he said, and he was proud of how his voice didn’t crack at all. Brendon froze, looking up slowly, eyes wide. Patrick swallowed again. “Is he here?”

Brendon nodded frantically, dropping the pen and the cup immediately before all but running into the back room. Patrick sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and counted breaths as he waited--one, two, three, four--

“I know there isn’t a long line, dumbass, why would you abandon the counter if--”

Pete froze and Brendon backed away wordlessly. Pete clenched his teeth, grabbing onto his apron so hard Patrick was worried he might actually rip it, staring from the binder in Patrick’s hands to Patrick’s face. 

“You know,” Patrick said haltingly. “I really fucking liked you. Like, a lot. And I still fucking do. And I have gone back and forth about if I believe what you said so many times the words don’t even make sense to me, so just. Tell me. Do you feel the way I feel? Do you--” Patrick lifted the binder and shook it once for emphasis. “Mean everything in this book? Is it real?”

“Yes,” Pete said hoarsely. “Yes to all of it. I mean it, Patrick. I know the joke was shitty and I know it must have hurt but I _like_ you. I didn’t mean it. They didn’t mean it. Please believe me.”

Patrick exhaled slowly, steeling himself before crossing to Pete and holding out the binder. 

“Here,” he said, when Pete looked at it, confused. “Take it.”

“It’s for you to keep,” Pete whispered. 

“I know,” Patrick said. “Hold onto it for me. You can give it back to me on our date.”

“Our date?” Pete asked, and Patrick nodded. 

“Our date,” he said. He was shaking a little bit, still had no idea if he was making the wrong choice but he wanted Pete so badly he just surrendered. “Pick me up tomorrow. From Soul Punk. At six.”

Pete was nodding before Patrick had even finished, taking the binder and pressing it to his chest.

“Yes, I’ll be there,” he said, and his voice cracked but they both ignored it. “Patrick, I’m sorry.”

“We’re not going to talk about it anymore,” Patrick said firmly, despite his racing heart. “We’re going to start over. Tomorrow.”

“At six,” Pete said.

“Don’t be late,” Patrick replied, and Pete nodded. “I loved it, by the way. _Folie a Deux_. It was incredible.”

“Thank you,” Pete whispered, eyes wide. Patrick nodded before taking a deep breath and pressing his lips to Pete’s, soft, fleeting. 

“Six,” he whispered, and Pete nodded again. Patrick kissed him again, just as quickly, before turning around and making a beeline for the door, before he could do anything else embarrassing. 

The Chicago wind was cold on his burning cheeks as Patrick made his way back to his train station, heart thumping strangely in his chest. He still didn’t know if he made the right decision, but something felt better in his chest, something felt right again. Patrick knew it would hurt so much worse if this fucked up, but he still wanted Pete so much he let himself hope, let the flames grow brighter. 

He’d find out one way or another, anyway. Tomorrow at six. 

\-----

**five months later.**

“No,” Patrick said firmly. “No, you are _not_ decorating _my shop_ for my stupid birthday. No way.”

“It’s literally five against one,” Andy said, rolling his eyes. 

“It’s _my_ birthday!” Patrick said, outraged. “And it’s my shift that day, so no, you are not _embarrassing me--”_

“If you think for one minute that anyone in your life is going to allow you to work on your birthday, you’re a moron,” Elisa said loudly. “I already took you off the schedule. You have plans.”

“I do not,” Patrick said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “What plans?”

“Oh yeah, I made dinner plans for us,” Pete said from his seat on the counter. “Did I not mention that?”

“How many times have I told you to get your ass off my counter?” Patrick asked, before narrowing his eyes. “What dinner plans?”

“Surprise dinner plans,” Pete said, smirking. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I think that’s physically impossible for him,” Joe said dryly, and Patrick crossed the room to poke Pete’s chest for emphasis.

“I said I wanted to do nothing for my birthday,” he said.

“I didn’t listen,” Pete said easily, cupping Patrick’s face and kissing him. “Shhh, baby, don’t freak out. Your children can watch the shop for a whole entire day while I spoil you.”

“I do not need to be spoiled,” Patrick grumbled, but his cheeks were pink and he was fighting a grin.

“That’s kind of how you spoil someone,” Pete said, kissing Patrick again. “Okay?”

“I let you get away with too much,” Patrick said, and Pete grinned. 

“I’m going to take advantage of it as long as I can,” he said, and Patrick pinched him. “Baby, you wound me.”

“I’ll show you wounded,” Patrick muttered, and Elisa groaned.

“Stop making weird sexual comments in my shop,” she said.

“It’s _my shop too,_ ” Patrick said. “And look who’s talking, Miss Invited-Her-Fiancee-To-Close-With-Her.”

“That was a _secret,”_ Elisa said, outraged, but Pete and Meredith’s laughter interrupted them, Meredith kissing the fury out of Elisa (not that Elisa seemed to mind) and Pete pulling Patrick close. 

“Just let me,” he implored, under Elisa’s giggles and Joe’s overdramatic sighing. Patrick kissed Pete lightly, lingering a little, before grinning against Pete’s lips.

“Just this once,” he said, and Pete grinned. 

“For now,” he said, and laughed as Patrick rolled his eyes. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Patrick asked, and Pete tilted his head, eyes soft.

“For liking my book,” he said. 

“I didn’t like it,” Patrick said. “I loved it, remember?”

“Even better,” Pete said. 

“Publish it,” Patrick said. Pete bit his lip. “Or no more spoiling.”

“Patrick!” Pete said, scandalized. “How could you deprive me?”

Patrick kissed Pete again.

“Publish it,” he repeated quietly, and Pete wrapped his arms around Patrick, tucking his head into Patrick’s neck.

“Yeah, okay,” he said finally, and Patrick grinned. “I--never mind.”

“No,” Patrick said, poking Pete again. “No _never minds._ What?”

Pete sighed.

“I love you,” he said, not lifting his head even when Patrick went still. “I’m sorry.”

Patrick gently pulled Pete’s head back up, looking at him for a long moment before kissing him hard. 

“God, you’d better,” he said breathlessly, breaking away for a moment. “Because I love you, too. It would be awkward if you didn’t.”

“We can’t have awkward,” Pete said. “Not so close to your birthday.”

“Oh no,” Patrick agreed dryly. “We can’t have _that.”_

Pete grinned. 

“So,” he said. “Tomorrow at six?”

Patrick grinned back.

“Don’t be late,” he said, and Pete laughed. 

(For what it’s worth, Pete wasn’t late. He never was.)

 

\----

**Author's Note:**

> i live and breathe on feedback. my home is at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com.


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